


Don't Leave Me Here Alone

by Strangeredlantern, Vague_Shadows



Series: Undefined [1]
Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Alex Manes, Canon Bisexual Character, Canon Gay Character, Childhood Trauma, M/M, Mild Smut, Minor Max Evans/Liz Ortecho, Psychological Trauma, Slow Burn, Underage Drinking, Underage Substance Use, Vigilante Michael Guerin, trust me we'll get to the vigilante stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 05:06:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19456960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Strangeredlantern/pseuds/Strangeredlantern, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vague_Shadows/pseuds/Vague_Shadows
Summary: An origin story, Michael just doesn't know it yet.While it’s true that Michael has known pain all his life, nothing----not the weeks of pain brought on by the process of coaxing his ruined hand back together or learning to live with the fact that Isobel never quite looks at him the same after Rosa died--has prepared him for the searing pain that consumes him when he stands, blinking back tears, and watches Alex fade out of sight down the dusty desert road while Michael’s soul screams in agony.Don’t leave me here alone…AKA: Michael blunders through fixing what's left of his hand, and Alex resolutely decides to fix everything.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> "This amazing relationship stole our souls, so we had to write about it... or something to that effect"  
> \- Vague_Shadows
> 
> I'm not usually the one uploading our fics, so I hope Vague_Shadows indulges my insolent, Michael-like behavior. 
> 
> Two notes from Strangeredlantern-  
> 1\. This show has been an incredible gift, getting to see the reality of queer characters and queer relationships on the screen. Vague and I have only ever written for subtextual queer relationships, and Roswell has really done a number on us. If you're here because we're Teen Wolf authors, please let me introduce you to a fandom that has everything you ever wanted out of Teen Wolf, a show that so utterly failed us.
> 
> 2\. This work will contain graphic depictions of Michael's hand injury. While my hand trauma has not been nearly as intense as Michael's on the show, I tried to draw as much as I could from my own experiences. As for the rest, I fully admit I watched Outlander and stole a lot of Claire's skills for Michael.
> 
> Ok, enough! On with the fic!

In plays and poems someone understands

there’s something makes us more than blood and bone

and more than biological demands 

For me love’s like the wind, unseen, unknown

I see the trees are bending where it’s been

I know that it leaves wreckage where it’s blown

I really don’t know what "I love you" means

I think it means "don’t leave me here alone” 

―  **Neil Gaiman,** [ **Adventures in the Dream Trade** ](https://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/6807071)

**Prologue**

“No, not you, sweetheart,” the woman says, gesturing for only the other two to come forward. “You’re going to stay with us a while longer.” 

He watches, helpless to stop it, as the others are lead away. He hasn’t made a sound since they came here; isn’t sure he’d make the right sounds even if he tried. He doesn’t know them anyway--not really. Their brief journey together is an overwhelming blur of unfamiliar surroundings and strange faces. Still, he can’t help but feel a pang of unease at their absence. They’re from the same place as he is; they’ve shared the same journey to this point. Now they’re leaving, together, but he’s not.

_ Don’t leave me here alone... _ he thinks, curling in on himself to resist the urge to run after them. 


	2. Chapter 2

Michael has known pain all his life. 

He’s been through more than one rough foster home--survived plenty of playground tustles and drunken fistfights. He figures that the life-altering, lingering pain of Jesse Manes’ using a steel hammer to shatter his hand would remain the worst pain of his life. Just in case the physical agony of it all isn’t quite enough, on the night all hope of any relationship with Alex, any hope of pursuing music, and any hope of going to Joe College at UNM are all gone. 

Because Isobel just killed three innocent people in cold blood.

And Michael helped cover it all up. 

And there’s just no way they all come out the other side of this night unscathed.

He answers his phone when Max calls, forgoing pleasantries and skipping straight to, “You get her home, okay? She should probably rest.”

“Yeah, she’s asleep. I came outside to call you, so even if she wakes up, she won’t overhear.”

“Overhear what?” Michael asks. “What exactly is there to talk about, Max?”

“We’ve got to figure out what the fuck we’re going to do?!” Max replies, incredulous, his voice a harsh whisper like he’s still concerned Iz will overhear.

“We’re gonna fucking forget this night ever happened,” Michael replies. “We’re _never_ talking about tonight again, understand? Under no circumstances.”

“We can’t just--”

“We’ll keep an eye on her, but we aren’t talking about this. If we don’t talk about it, then we can’t blow the cover; we can’t tell the wrong people; we can’t get overheard or caught in a lie or any of that rookie bullshit that gets people caught when shit like this goes down. We keep her--and us--safe by keeping our fucking mouths shut. That becomes pod-squad rule number fucking one. Above all your other bullshit, paranoid rules. _That’s_ what we’re going to do. Got it?”

“Got it,” Max says, from the sound of his voice he’s so desperate for a “solution” he’s not going to fight Michael on it, “one question first though.”

“What?”

“You never told me what fucked up your hand,” he says. “What happened? If you need a doctor--”

“If I need a doctor, I’m screwed, same as always,” Michael replies, knowing good and well a doctor is _exactly_ what he needs. Actually a _surgeon_ is probably what he needs, but that’s abso-fucking-lutely out of the question. “I made the mess; I’ll clean it up.”

“I could try to help.”

“It’s not that bad,” Michael lies. “Just busted it up in a fight, being stupid.”

“You gotta cut that shit out; you’re gonna lose your ride to UNM.”

“Yeah, like I’m gonna run off to college after what just happened. I can barely stomach letting Isobel out of my sight. Maybe in a year or two I’ll manage being on the other side of town. No fucking way am I leaving--”

“You can’t just give up--”

“Its already done,” Michael lies. Maybe if he says it out loud, he’ll get over this faster.

“Michael--”

“Discussion is over. It’s been a long fucking day. We’ll keep working damage control tomorrow,” Michael says. “I got some other shit to take care of.”

“What else could you _possibly_ have to--”

“I gotta fix my hand, you fucking idiot. We _just_ talked about this. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He hangs up and tosses his phone onto the pleather bench, rolling his eyes as it bounces off the seat and onto the floor. _What the fuck ever_ he thinks as he continues his drive out to the caves, trying not to let his mind wander to the fact that he made this same panicked drive only hours ago. For a few hot seconds at the mouth of the cave, Michael forgets that his hand looks like ground meat and functions about as well as a hamburger. The pain comes screaming up his arm when he tries to open the truck door, and he sobs into the silence. He cradles his hand up to his chest, and stumbles out of the car. One day, he’s going to have someplace better to hide his stash, but for now he searches for the right book by the ethereal glow from the pods. He _borrowed_ the book from his AP Bio teacher--it was just sitting there on the shelf, gathering dust, and this college-level anatomy textbook beat the hell out of the anamteur ones he stole from the library years ago. They’re all lucky as hell that their alien anatomy isn’t so far off from a human’s. Michael’s been using reference books to self-treat since the first time he broke his arm when he was nine--anything to stay the hell away from the hospital. He jerks his head to draw the two books out of the stacks, sending them over to one of the less sandy edges of the cave.

The adrenaline from the night is starting to wane at an alarming rate. He takes several more gulps of acetone, grateful for the small infirmary stash he’s amassed here over the years. He’s going to have to lift more supplies from the pharmacy--maybe that urgent care center that just opened up too-- but this should get him through the night at least. He unwraps the gauze he haphazardly used to staunch the bleeding and hide the damage; the fingernail of his ring finger falls off with the gauze, and for just a second Michael thinks he honest to god might pass out. Because that horrifying fact is the least of his worries. It’s clear from just a glance that his hand is fucked. So very, _very_ fucked. But the truly terrifying part is the fact that he can’t _feel_ how mangled it is. 

Michael lands on the cool stone more than he sits down on it, and he leans back onto the cave wall to keep himself from throwing up the acetone. He presses his shaking right index finger gently to the tip of each finger on his left hand. He can feel the pressure in each one, but only his thumb and index finger seem to really be registering the sensation. 

_Maybe just because of the swelling,_ he reasons, knowing it’s not likely. _Can’t be sure yet._

He takes another gulp of acetone and forces himself to just breathe for a moment or two. 

“Okay, first things first. No infections,” he says quietly, talking himself through this like it’s just another cut or bruise. The sting of the rubbing alcohol on the broken skin is excruciating, but, again, not as bad as he thinks it should be. 

_It’s the acetone and the adrenaline. Of course it’s lessening the pain. Don’t worry; be grateful for it._

“Don’t need stitches,” he lies to himself, “but some steri-strips might be good.”

Everything takes three times as long as it should--between operating one-handed and the fuzzy feeling he’s starting to get from all the acetone. He gets the steri-strips on the cuts that don’t have bones poking out--which were starting to scab up on their own pretty well before he attempted cleaning the wounds. 

“And just--just gotta set the bones is all,” he goes on, like it’s nothing. Like it’s going to be an easy next step he can handle. 

Because he has to handle this. 

There’s no other option. 

He’s just going to have to do the best he can. He flips hopefully through the anatomy book, realizing that it’s not going to give him enough. Sure it lays out all the intricacies of a human hand--but there’s nothing about how exactly that anatomy gets fucked up when a homophobic psychopath drives a hammer into your fist repeatedly. He tries to align the bones by hand at first, trying to be as gentle as possible. At some point through the pain and mindfuck of seeing his own bones, he decides to splint his entire hand. Michael has no choice really, according to the diagrams. He pulls a small piece of wood from the truck bed with his mind, and gingerly places his left palm face down on the plank. 

_Oh god._

Michael panics to the point of almost pissing himself when he sees how crooked his fingers are on a flat surface. He feels sick to his stomach, but opts for using his powers, which have a lot more dexterity than his right hand if he concentrates hard enough. The problem is that he just can’t _feel_ enough. He just feels the pain, and whether it gets worse or better. It’s more delicate than resetting his arm had been. This is going to be one hell of a process.

In the end he settled for binding all four of his fingers together onto the wood until he can get better information on how to move forward, covering his hand again in a crude mit of gauze, and polishing off the bottle of acetone. He’d love to curl up here, in the relative safety of the cave, letting the glow of the pods calm him; but if he sleeps too long and somebody finds his truck, they’ll start looking for him. Better to sleep out in the truck than risk it. 

He stumbles out, exhaustion robbing him of his faculties every bit as much as the acetone. He doesn’t have the energy to get out his sleeping bag and set things up in the truck bed, so he just stretches out across the seat of the truck, curling up around his ruined hand, and lets sleep take him as the first rays of dawn start to stream across the desert. 


	3. Chapter 3

For the first couple of moments when he wakes, Michael honestly weighs the option of just chopping off his whole damn hand. His head is foggy with the hangover left in the wake of alcohol and acetone, and he reaches haphazardly into the glove box seeking more. Y’ _need some hair of the dog that bit ya,_ as one of his favorite foster dads used to say. When there’s only a swallow or two of acetone to be found anywhere in the truck, he realizes both how much he must have downed last night and how important it is to make sure a supply run happens today. 

He has about five texts from Isobel wondering if he’s okay and does he want to do lunch. He was one text from Max that just says  _ text Isobel back.  _ He rolls his eyes and cranks the truck, heading for town without responding to either of them. He counts the change in his cup holder, and stops at the gas station for a few gallons of gas and a cup of half-decent coffee.

“Rough night?” the cashier asks with a look at his disheveled appearance. “Or fun night?”

He’s got a cover story to sell, not that it’ll really matter, so he forces a grin and lies, “Both, but mostly fun.”

“Enjoy it while you can,” she tells him. “Have a good one.”

“You too.”

Fueled by caffeine he heads for the pharmacy, trying to decide whether to aim for pills or acetone. Michael imagines that the disgusting, rusty-sticky feel of his entire body, his desire to lay down on the cool tile of the pain meds aisle must be what humans feel when they get sick. Michael silently promises himself to never roll his eyes at their pain tolerance again. In the end, he figures it’s easier to steal acetone--buying it is both expensive and weird--which is why Isobel usually has to handle that part under the guise of maintaining her perfect manicure. He actually buys some gauze and off-brand Band-aids to divert suspicion though. Which leaves him with a whopping sixty-two cents left to his name until he can figure out how to get back to work with only one good hand.

“You should really get that checked out, son,” the pharmacist says when he checks out, eyeing his bandaged hand with concern. 

“Nah,” Michael replies. “Looks worse than it is.” 

“Better safe than--”

“Have a good one,” Michael says, interrupting as he takes his receipt and leaves to avoid the unwanted lecture. 

By the time he reaches the local library it’s well past two in the afternoon. His stomach is still queasy but rumbling nonetheless, after a quick rummage through his bags to find and devour some peanut butter crackers, Michael makes his way in and finds a vacant computer. Internet searches are infinitely more helpful than the basic anatomy book had been, but it also highlights for Michael just how epically fucked his hand probably is. Maybe he really should just let Max heal it. 

But Alex would notice. Jesse Manes sure as hell would notice. With everything they just did for Isobel last night, trying to keep attention away from her, the last thing Michael’s going to do is draw attention back to any of them. No, as much as he wishes he could, Michael can’t let Max heal his hand. 

So instead he spends hours pouring through articles and diagrams and everything he can possibly find to understand what he can do to hopefully reshape his mangled hand into something halfway functional. It takes longer than it should for him to realize there seem to be a lot more hushed conversations going on than usual today. When it clicks that the news of the “wreck” is probably starting to spread, Michael feels a new wave of nausea hit that has nothing to do with his hangover. He starts listening in, catches phrases here and there that confirm word is getting out. After a while the sound of the whispers seem deafening, and he’s learned as much as he can absorb for now anyway, so he leaves, checking his phone again to see seven more texts from Isobel, and an additional one from Max  _ would you text Isobel back, asshole? And check in with her. I gotta go check on Liz. _

Michael groans and flips his phone over in a childish bid to pretend he hadn’t read any of that. Of  _ course  _ Max is going to go and rub salt in the emotional wounds of last night by catching a front row seat to Liz’s grief. Of fucking course he is. For all his rule-making and “you have to be more careful Michael” lectures, Max is going to fool around and be the one that gets them all outed and filleted if they’re not careful. 

_ Meet me at the drive-in?  _ Michael texts Isobel.  _ Or you want me to come to your place? _

_ I’ll meet you at the drive-in,  _ she replies almost instantly.  _ We’ve got to talk about what the hell we’re going to do about Max,  _ she adds a few seconds later.

Maybe Max and Isobel play up the whole twin thing, but sometimes Michael and Isobel are so in sync with their mildly-diabolical plans, he thinks they could take over the world if they set their minds to it. Between the two of them, they’ll come up with something.  __

_ Bring acetone,  _ Michael tells her. It’s gonna be a long fucking day...

Isobel beats him to the drive in. It’s too early for even the employees to be here yet, so she’s sitting at one of the picnic tables in solitude. Even better, she brought supplies if the polka dot cooler bag is any indication, and Michael hopes there are some of Mrs. Evans’ wine coolers in there. It’s easier to manage an alcohol buzz than an acetone one, and he’s got to be at least half sober if he’s going to try to work on his hand later. Isobel looks up as he walks over, but she doesn’t smile in greeting. He’s about to ask what’s wrong but then realizes it’s a dumb question. 

As far as Isobel knows, he killed three innocent people last night. Of course she isn’t smiling at him. Hell, she might never smile at him again. 

“Hey,” he says finally, just to break the silence. “You okay?” he wonders. “I mean, ya know, all things considered?”

“I should probably be asking you that,” she replies. “What the hell happened last night, Michael?!”

“It was an accident,” he replies earnestly, using his tried and true method of convincing lies by way of telling selective truths. “I swear it wasn’t intentional.”

She stares at him, her eyes boring into Michael’s as if she could see right down to his soul.

“Was that intentional?” she asks with a nod to his hand. 

“No,” he replies. “It happened an hour or two before everything with the girls. It was a whole different thing. I wasn’t picking a fight with them, not least of all because even if I was the kind of asshole who hits girls we both know Rosa Ortecho could kick my ass if she wanted.”

“Unless you’re using your powers.”

“Isobel—”

“What the hell happened, Guerin?!” she demands, snarling his surname like a curse and a slap to the face.  _ Hope this is how it feels when I insult people,  _ he muses grudgingly.

When he doesn’t answer immediately, she rants on, “All the shit you’ve been through all these years; and the first time you snap it’s not on some horrific foster parent or an asshole at school? But on three innocent girls?” 

He still doesn’t reply. Eventually her eyes widen in horror and then narrow in judgment a moment later, “Unless this  _ wasn’t  _ the first time you snapped?”

He tries to take heart in the fact that she’s so convinced it wasn’t her—and focus on how lucky they are that he was able to protect her from the terrible truth, but it’s hard with his sister looking at him like he’s some kind of monster. He opens his mouth to spit back some retort, but finds he lacks the energy.

Instead he just says, “I know I don’t hold a candle to Saint Max, and all that. I’m the black sheep hoodlum and all that shit. But do you honestly think I could  _ murder  _ anybody, Isobel?”

Her gaze softens slightly, and he repeats, “It was the first time anything like that has ever happened. It was an accident.”

“So then what if it happens again?”

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t,” he swears.

“But what if--”

“I’ll make sure. I promise.”

“You wanna talk about--”

“No. No, I never want to talk about last night ever again,” he says emphatically. “Every time I close my eyes I see---” he chokes of his sentence as his words get caught in his throat. “Don’t ask me to talk about it,” he implores. “We don’t talk about what happened with Max the night we went camping; we don’t talk about this,” he reasons, trying to remind her that she found a way to forgive Max all those years ago--of course, Max was protecting her. She thinks Michael was just out of control. 

“I’m sorry, Isobel,” he says finally, because he really is sorry. He’s sorry he didn’t know what affect the possibility of him and Max leaving would have; sorry he didn’t see the change in her; sorry he didn’t protect her from whatever darkness took over his sister last night. 

“I know you wouldn’t have done it on purpose,” she tells him, “but you have to get a better handle on it, okay? And you have to talk to me and Max if you can’t get your powers under control, so we can--”

“What?” Michael interjects, “put me down like a rabid dog?” he means it to come off as sarcastic exaggeration, but it must land just shy of its mark because there’s a little pity in Isobel’s eyes when she contradicts. 

“No, talk to us so we can  _ help,  _ you asshole,” she tells him.

“Yeah, I will.”

“Promise?” she asks, extending a hand for the cliche but traditional sibling pinky swear. 

“Promise,” he agrees, moving to meet her hand with his left before he thinks better and grimacing a bit. 

Before he can brush past it and offer his other hand, she’s taking his forearm gently in her hands. 

“How bad is it?” she wonders, staring at the gauze that hides the real extent of the damage as if she could x-ray his hand. 

He shrugs. “You know me. I’ll manage. Never met a puzzle I couldn’t solve.”

“That  _ puzzle _ is made of your  _ bones _ ,” she points out. “Maybe you should let Max--”

“Too much attention,” he says firmly, “and after last night…”

“Can I help?” she offers. 

“Nah, I’ll figure it out. Did some research today so I kinda know what I’m dealing with to get it healing up right.” He pulls his hand back from her, letting it fall back to the picnic table. 

“Enough about me; let’s figure out what the hell we’re going to do about Max and Liz before his Romeo impersonation gets us all killed...”


	4. Chapter 4

He expected it would be a bitch to set the bones in his hand, and he was grateful for the alcohol and acetone Isobel had given him when they parted ways at the drive-in. But holy  _ fuck  _ he had underestimated how excruciating this was going to be. Finding the balance between enough buzz to numb the pain and enough to think clearly enough to feel out bones with his mind is nearly impossible. By the end he’s splayed in the back of his truck, parked half way underneath the bridge, covered in a cold sweat. Michael’s so nauseated he almost wishes he could vomit again but he’s pretty sure there’s not anything left to puke up. 

The cherry on top is that he still isn’t even sure he did this right; it’s just the best approximation of bone alignment he could manage with gentle prodding from his good hand and mental prodding with his abilities. He’s exhausted, mentally and physically, and reached a point where he’d done as well with his homemade splint as he ever would, so he polishes off another couple of wine coolers and is  _ just  _ on the edge of sleep when his phone starts to ring. He ignores it, but it rings again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

“Fuckin’,  _ what _ ?!” he demands when he finally answers. 

“Are you drunk?” Max asks, incredulous.

“That’s nunna your goddamn business, is it?” 

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

“My hand ‘s _fucked,_ you dick, ‘member?” Michael slurs angrily. “What d’you expect? Course’m drunk. Is somethin’ wrong with Isobel?”

“No, but I was thinking of going to spend some time with Liz and I thought maybe you could hang out with Iz,” Max replies. “Is your hand really that bad?” Max’s concerned tone entices another round of burning bile at the back of his throat. He’s angry that Max cares, angry at his own stupid reactions to  _ everything _ , terrified beyond belief that they’ll never talk to each other again.

“‘Sfine now. I set th’bones.”

“Boxer’s fracture?” Max guesses, having apparently done some research of his own. Michael would be touched if he wasn’t so fucking mad at him.

“Dunno, couldn’ find m’ portable home x-ray kit,” he answers sardonically. 

“I just meant what’s your best guess, obviously,” Max says with a huff of annoyance. 

“If nothin’s wrong w’Isobel, ’m hangin’ up,” Michael says, doing just that and drifting off to sleep almost instantly after.

******************************************

He wakes to the sound of an engine vaguely above him, and for a disorienting moment he thinks someone has cranked his truck, but then he realizes it’s actually the sound of Max’s Jeep pulling up alongside the river bank. He groans, shutting his eyes again and praying for just about anything that would deliver him from the lecture that’s probably about to come. 

“Fuck off, would you?” Michael mutters as Max approaches the side of the truck bed, realizing that he is  _ much  _ more sober than he would care to be right now. 

“I think you mean, “thank you Max for searching all my usual camping spots coming to rescue my dehydrated, hungover, idiot self from perishing like a dried up prune in the desert,” Max replies in a voice dripping with good-natured sarcasm. “Thank you Max for bringing me blue gatorade and grilled cheese sandwiches and painkillers and medical supplies. Thank you Max for--”

“If you’re lying about the grilled cheese, I’m never forgiving you,” he says, instantly perked at the thought, despite his still slightly queasy stomach. 

Grilled cheese remains his absolute favorite food in the entire world. The fancy ones Isobel makes when she’s trying to be bougie or the ones made of cheap white bread and off-brand Kraft singles from the dollar store, Michael loves them all. And he’s considerably happier to see his brother when he realizes that he did indeed come bearing gifts. Max slings no less than four bags into the back of the truck as he climbs over into the bed to join Michael. Michael searches for the gatorade first, taking a couple of careful sips before diving into the bag that holds four grilled cheese sandwiches. 

He realizes he’s about to have a hell of a time unwrapping the foil one-handed without using telekinesis, and Max seems to understand it at the same moment.

“Lend a guy a hand?” Michael wonders with a grin, attempting to keep the mood nonchalant. 

“How about I help you fix up the one that’s busted first?” Max replies, reaching for one of the other bags. He dumps out the contents of the bag to reveal two different styles of hand braces, a few finger splints, and a couple of ace bandages. “I figured this should cover it? And whatever we don’t use you can add to your infirmary stash with the pods.” 

Michael studies Max for a moment or two, debating asking his brother when the hell he became such a mother hen, but before he can decide to say anything Max breaks the companionable silence.

“Thank you,” he tells Michael earnestly, “for protecting Isobel. You didn’t have to do that.”

He shrugs. “What’re brothers for?”

“I’m her brother too; it didn’t occur to me to take the fall for it.”

Michael almost brushes the comment off again, but instead he says somberly, “You should’ve seen the look she gave me today, Max.”

Max seems to struggle with how to reply, opening and closing his mouth a few times before offering, “I’ll talk to her. She’ll understand. She forgave me for the guy when we were camping--”

“Yeah, the outburst of energy in the moment of protecting your sister,” Michael says bitterly, “not the outburst of an irresponsible idiot who she probably thinks was drunk off his ass when he lost control and killed three innocent girls.”

Max doesn’t reply. There’s not much to say really. The only other option is Isobel knowing the truth, which would quite possibly destroy her. 

“It’s okay,” Michael says. “I can take it.”

And because he’s had about as much talking as he can take for now, he reaches for one of the braces that Max brought. “You gonna sit there all day or you gonna help patch me up?” he asks, and Max grabs onto the task like a lifeline as they let their focus shift to the less daunting task of a make-shift cast. 

Despite Michael’s protests to the contrary, Max insists on entirely deconstructing the work Michael has done so far, and Max quickly realizes the task is going to be more intense than he bargained for. Max cradles what’s left of Michael’s hand with a tenderness that is overwhelming, and fixes a grim gaze on his brother. Michael stares through the back window of his truck in lieu of admitting to the fact that he’s crying most embarrassing tears he’s shed in front of Max to date.

“I know; it’s bad. I don’t need a lecture on the idiocy of fighting while drunk and on acetone, okay? I think the fucked up hand is going to be lasting lesson enough, don’t you?”

“I could heal it.”

“Too many questions,” Michael replies. “People saw what happened. They’d notice.”

“Who the hell did you fight with?” Max asks. “And is the guy’s head even still attached to his body?”

“Yeah, it is,” Michael tells him, ice trickling down his neck as his memory grazes along the edge of Mr. Manes’ face. He swallows to reign the panic in. “Halfway through the fight he got ahold of a tire iron,” he lies smoothly, as he half-heartedly mimes the smash with his right hand to illustrate. “I lost pretty quick after that.”

“It wasn’t Valenti, was it?” Max asks.

“Why? You gonna go defend my honor?” Michael teases, but Max doesn’t rise to the bait of taking the conversation in the more lighthearted direction.

“Was it?” He asks again.

“No, it wasn’t. Look, just help me get some kind of cast on it, would you? I don't need to relieve this shit. I was stupid. I got drunk. I picked a fight. I got my ass beat. And now I gotta get my hand passably healed enough so that no good samaritans drag the poor misguided homeless teenager to the ER and I blow our cover.”

“Maybe if I practice I can figure out how to heal it just partially and—“

“Goddamnit, Max, my hand is just fucking  _ ruined.  _ Accept it!” Michael rages, at the end of his rope with his brothers ridiculous optimism. Michael learned a long time ago that life isn’t easy or fair, but it’s a lesson that never really took root in his siblings. “Get your sheltered, hero-complex head out of the motherfucking clouds and just help me bandage the damn thing up!”

Max seems cowed by the outburst. He never seems to know what to say when Michael brings up the disparity in their relative qualities of life growing up—-usually in moments of impatience and poorly concealed resentment, like now. Sometimes Michael feels guilty for playing this card—it’s not like Max  _ asked _ the Evans to leave Michael behind—but today Michael is exhausted, and in pain, and he doesn’t have the patience to spare his brother’s feelings anymore. Max needs reminding that there are high prices like this that they’ve all got to pay if they’re going to keep their secret safe. 

“Okay,” Max says finally. “We’ll get it into something like a cast. We should probably get you set up to camp here for a few days, ‘cause people are going to notice this much of a home remedy and how much pain you’re in if you try to roam around town. Me and Iz can come check on you, bring our supplies. We’ll tell people you just have into your senioritis and went on a bender or something.”

“Sounds good,” Michael agrees. “Tell me one of those bags has acetone,” he adds, and Max obligingly hands him a fresh bottle. “Moderation,” Max advises him. 

Michael just rolls his eyes at his brother and downs a solid third of the bottle before they continue on.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have no self control. I love this community so much it hurts me to sit on the rest of the chapters. Thank you for indulging me.
> 
> May find a better way to indicate switching perspectives, but I am too impatient right now. Vague and I will update the work and the chapter notes if we do.
> 
> FYI, this story earned the E rating for graphic depictions of violence. I would give the porn in this chapter an M.

_ Michael smiles, blissed out lying with his jeans loose on his thighs, and turns to stare at Alex on the rough bunk. He should probably be a little embarrassed at just how little finesse and stamina he managed for their first round, but he’s honestly not. Alex is--different. He isn’t sure how or why, but he’s one of the few people Michael’s ever believed when he claims to be kind without agenda. If Michael hadn’t gone searching for their first kiss--after being overwhelmed at the prospect when Alex made the first move--he really doesn’t think Alex would have pushed it. But he also doesn’t think Alex would have stopped being good to him, either. He reaches to run his fingers through Alex’s hair, brushing through the dark locks with ease, and Alex smiles at him, his eyes fluttering shut.  _

_ “What’s the verdict?” Alex wonders. His eyes stay closed, and the redness on his cheeks from the last ten minutes refuses to fade. _

_ “On what? Your mouth?” Michael whispers, pulling his palm down to rest on Alex’s warm jaw. So hot in so many ways, Michael thinks, smiling to himself. _

_ “Well, you said it was the first time you had ever--” _

_ “I dunno,” Michael replies, and Alex’s eyes snap open and dart downwards as his face falls for just a moment before Michael adds, “Pretty amazing, but we might have to like, try that again just to make sure.”  _

_ Alex rolls his eyes but lays his free arm on Michael’s naked hip and maybe Michael is still oversensitive, because it lights his spine on fire. Michael goes on, “I mean; you’re in AP bio with me.” Michael drags his fingers down Alex’s neck, and they both shiver. “It’s science,” he smiles as he lets his nails graze over Alex’s nipple and down towards his ribs. Alex keens toward him, and Michael files that away. Beyond teasing, he wants to know if copying Alex’s moves will make Alex feel as good as Michael does right now.  _

_ “I know you didn’t come yet,” and things get hotter and more blurry as he reaches the elastic of Alex’s black boxers and Alex’s hand on Michael’s side digs in with what Michael can only assume is encouragement. “Gotta make sure we can reproduce the results after multiple trials before---” _

_ The door bursts open, and Mr. Manes stands in the frame, bellowing insults and swinging a sledgehammer wildly as he charges into the room. Everything seems to shatter at once. Michael’s seizes Alex’s hair and pulls him tight to his chest, tries to deflect some of the splintering wood and shattering glass that seems to be coming from every direction, but he isn’t sure if it’s coming from the damage inflicted by the sledgehammer Mr. Manes is wielding or because he’s losing control of his powers. He can’t lose control; not here, not in front of people; sure as hell not in front of a fucking solider. Michael tries to flee, tries to pull Alex with him, drag him away too, but he can’t overcome the terror, straighten up enough to see through the barrage of splinters and glass, and the only place to go is out the window at the foot of the bunk. He tries to take Alex with him, tries to tell Alex to RUN but his hands grasp at nothing and he screams instead as Alex reappears in the grip of Jesse Manes, and the sunlight streaming in through the broken windows of the toolshed gets brighter and brighter and he tries to run but then he’s falling and….  _

Michael wakes screaming, the contents of his truck falling with a thud back down to the metal of the truck bed and the floor of the cab. He tries desperately to catch his breath, scanning the horizon in panic to see whether there are any witnesses in sight. Other than the small cluster of riverbank trees that Michael’s staked out as his camping spot, there’s nothing but cacti and scrub brush as far as the eye can see, which makes it easier to start calming himself, taking deep breaths as he tries to calm his racing pulse. 

_ Imagine you’re holding a balloon, Michael,  _ the voice of a long-gone social worker suggests.  _ Take big deep breaths in so you can blow up the balloon as big as it will go. _

He doesn’t remember her name, but he remembers her auburn hair and kind, green eyes. Words had been difficult, at first. It’s probably why he can’t recall her name. He remembers not understanding the word “balloon” until she pulled out a real one from her pocket and demonstrated. He remembers some asshole foster-sibling at the time taking away the balloon away after the woman left--and he remembers biting that kid to retake his balloon. He smiles at the memory. The woman who ran the group home threw out the balloon as punishment to both of them, but Michael had still felt triumphant--empowered even. He was alone, but he wasn’t helpless. He could stand up for himself.

He glances bitterly at his hand, thinking how utterly he failed at his attempt to stand up for Alex. As the terror of the dream fades, the pain in his hand intensifies and the heat from his dream reveals itself to be nothing more than a scorching metal bed in the New Mexico sun. Knowing his nightmares, he was probably thrashing it around like a fucking lunatic, too. At least it doesn’t seem to be bleeding; maybe he didn’t redo too much of the damage that’s started healing over the last week. He reaches for the bottle of cheap vodka in the cooler and takes a gulp, letting the horrible, lukewarm burn in his throat wake him further from the nightmare and ground him back in reality. It puts a nice soft edge on the maelstrom of emotions swirling around. 

_ God, what I wouldn’t give for a guitar right now,  _ he thinks. He’s in desperate need of the quiet it would bring. He mentally adds it to the list of items to have Max or Isobel bring on their next supply run. He’ll probably call Isobel to ask. Saint Max keeps lecutring him about the “concerning” rate at which he’s been consuming acetone. Only Michael’s threat to just go into town and steal it if Max wouldn’t bring it got his brother to acquiesce last time. 

Michael’s favorite thing about camping is the solitude and the sight lines. With a wide open desert, it isn’t hard to figure out whether you’re being watched or whether it’s relatively safe to amuse himself with some telekinesis. It’s not a terrible way to pass the time, and it’s a nice reminder that however fucked his hand may be, Michael can probably figure out a way to telekinetically supplement his dexterity. If Max ever finds out just how regularly he uses his powers, he’ll have a cow, but Max isn’t here and Michael really is going to need to be able to bank on his powers if he’s going to keep a mechanic job with a bum hand. So he passes the days until Max and Isobel are due to arrive for their camp out by rewriting his console notes with a twig in the sand.

*********************ALEX*************************

_ Infiltration: the act of entering or gaining access to an organization or place surreptitiously, especially in order to acquire secret information or cause damage. _

Alex repeats the mantra to himself once again as he gazes into the flat depth of his bedroom ceiling. His fingers are threaded together, resting on his stomach.

_ Is the ceiling even real? Are there other colors? _

His mind wanders, stalks around the memories. Alex retreats to more definitions, so dangerous he hardly lets the words form in his mind. He yanks himself back into focus, the barely visible imperfections in the ceiling becoming clear once again. He can’t go back to that place. He’ll never think of  _ there  _ again.

And yet….

The ceiling loses its sharpness, the white paint shines and settles like fog at 9 a.m.

_ “This has nothing to do with you!” _

_ He’s still getting choked by his father, nothing new. He viciously twists his hands on the wrist that’s pinning him to the post. He holds on, he moves the way all the Manes’ have been taught and like simple cause and effect, father’s arm is dislocated in perfect form. Michael grabs his face, wrenches him away from the toolshed post. _

_ “What did you just do?” _

_ Alex is seized with Michael’s terror as his father stands despite Alex’s best attempts, and grabs Michael away from him, pulls him toward the workbench and- _

The mute and frustrated pain of choking wakes him up, and Alex rediscovers the blank white reality of his ceiling once again. He’s more in his body in this second than he has been the last… four or five days?

Alex rushes back into himself, his thoughts coming so fast there’s not even time to parse them all out. He settles on three things. 

First: the definition of ‘Vivid’ doesn’t even touch the surface of what that dream was. The sickening panic of the unforeseen consequence of temporarily wounding his father instead of finishing the deed, the paralytic of feeling every emotion at once, the feel of his hands’ muscle memory, the wide eyed panic of Michael… they were all as real as this ceiling above him now. 

Second: Guerin will have to wait.  _ For how long?  _ His panicked thoughts stutter, but he pushes them away. 

Third: He will enlist today.

The rest of his thoughts are dismissed for a continuing and intricate study of his path forward from this moment. 

_ Infiltration: the act of entering or gaining access to an organization or place surreptitiously, especially in order to acquire secret information or cause damage. _

_ Infiltration: the act of entering or gaining access to an organization or place surreptitiously, especially in order to acquire secret information or cause damage. _

_ Infiltration: the act of entering or gaining access to an organization or place surreptitiously, especially in order to acquire secret information or cause damage. _

  
  


**********************************************

Max calls it an early night, leaving the warm glow of the campfire and retreating to the hammock. Michael and Isobel sit in comfortable silence, listening to the flames crackle. He’s nursing a bottle of cheap bourbon, and Isobel’s frown deepens with every swig he takes. 

“What?” he demands finally, knowing full well he doesn’t want to know the answer. 

“Maybe Max does go over the top worry about how much you drink, but--”

“Oh, Jesus, not you too,” he says with a groan. “Iz, come on,” he implores, and then grins impishly, “It’s medicinal.”

“It’s  _ addictive _ ,” she retorts. “Have you been drinking this much for a while? Or are you just going through it because of your hand? ‘Cause your hand should be getting better and--”

“It’s nothing for you to worry about, okay? I’m a big boy. I can take care of myself.”

“It  _ is  _ something for me to worry about,” she persists. “Not just because who the hell knows what it’s doing to your organs, and if it does fuck something up one day, it’s not like you can go to the ER for fluids or to get your stomach pumped or to--”

“I’m fine!”

“You’re  _ not _ fine!”

“Guys?” Max interrupts sleepily, rejoining them. “What’s going on?”

“Impromptu intervention apparently,” Michael replies. “Isobel thinks I’m an alcoholic.”

“Well, she has a point...” Max begins.

“Oh, for the love of God! Would you two mind your own damn business?!” Michael interrupts. 

“You  _ are  _ our business! You’re our brother!” Isobel says, and though she’s glaring daggers at him, there’s a pain on her face too that brings just the slightest hint of guilt to the surface for Michael. “We just want to help you; but you have to  _ let  _ us help you.”

“I don’t need you two to rescue me. I’m fine.”

“You’re not. You’ve gone through two handles  _ plus  _ eight bottles of acetone in the past  _ week _ , and you want us to get you just as much or more for next week! You can’t keep going on like this!” Her tone is tinged with angry tears, and Michael prays to literally anyone to please stop piling additional shit on top of him, please and thank you.

“I don’t have any other goddamn choice, Isobel!” he rants, and the force of his frustration manifests, his mind lashing out to shove everything around him--chairs, cooler, even his siblings--about a foot back.

Isobel’s eyes grow wide with apprehension; she’s been a little afraid of him ever since the night Rosa died, but this is worse. It’s true fear on her face, and he can tell her fight-or-flight response is warring with her rational brain.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he says tiredly, cradling his hand up to his chest. “I didn’t mean to--”

“You can’t lose control like that, Michael,” she says. “You promised it wouldn’t happen again and--”

“I know I did. That’s what the booze and the acetone is for, okay? Yeah, my hand hurts like hell, but it’s bigger than that. I don’t have,  _ less _ control when I’m drinking; I have  _ more _ .”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Max says, sitting back down next to the fire and gazing hopelessly at the flames. 

“First of all, we’re aliens,” Michael reminds scathingly. “Our whole lives are one big line of shit that doesn’t make any sense.” Max kind of shrugs at the words, in a silent “touche” of sorts, so Michael goes on, “Second of all, I can keep a damper on my powers no problem-- _ except  _ when my emotions get the better of me and I get too caught up in my own head and just spiral down all kinds of bullshit anxiety rabbit holes and this” he grasps for a nearly empty bottle and shakes it at them, “takes the edge off, okay? Waking or sleeping, I gotta have something to take the edge off, or--”

“Or somebody gets hurt,” Isobel says grimly.

“Yeah,” Michael affirms, closing his eyes against the way she’s looking at him--that look like he’s a rattlesnake that might strike out at any second. 

“There are medications for anxiety,” Max tries. “We could help you--”

Michael shakes his head. “Tried ‘em all---well, most of them, anyway.”

“And?”

“Nothing; it’s like I’m taking placebo pills, no matter what I’ve tried or how high I up the dose; they just don’t work with my neurochemistry I guess,’ Michael confides, more defeated than he had planned on revealing. “Besides, pills are way harder to steal than alcohol and acetone,” he adds, trying to get the tone back to a lighter place with a forced grin. “Even easier as time goes on and I start making some money and get older and all that. It’s an easy solution. Y’all just gotta lay the hell off the Twenty-First Amendment approach to the topic.”

“We’re just worried about you; it can’t be good for you to do this,” Max says, his eyes landing on the pile of empty bottles over by the truck. “We’ll help you find another way to manage it.”

“Whatever you say, Max,” Michael says patronizing for the sake of ending this conversation. “In the meantime,” he adds, raising what’s left of the bottle. “Cheers.” 

****

After a solid two weeks of involuntary camping, sustained by visits from Isobel and Max with plenty of supplies and lectures about keeping up with homework, Michael’s hand has healed into something he can more realistically pass off as “no big deal” -- or at least not a big enough deal to get him committed to a hospital against his will by well-meaning teachers. The death of three young girls has cast a shadow of grief and hostility over the town, so much so that Michael gets away with showing up solely for his finals once he spins a solid sob story to the counselor, shedding a couple of well-timed, manly tears to really sell his emotional turmoil at the existential crisis of how fleeting young life can be.

His hand might be too fucked for music, but damn, maybe he should look into acting. 

Graduation night arrives, and Max and Isobel pull him into a family photo, ignoring the disapproving faces of their parents. Mr. Diehl, the AP lit teacher, asks Michael for a picture, declaring he’s sure Michael is headed for great things once he gets access to the wealth of knowledge UNM has to offer. He doesn’t correct the assumption, letting himself pretend, at least for one night, that the last decade of busting his ass at school no matter what else was going on was actually going to pay off. He poses for more pictures, tells people he’ll miss them like he’ll really be leaving, and even spins his AP bio teacher a story about a great studio apartment he found instead of being stuck in the dorms. 

In the days following graduation, he tries to find a time to talk to Alex, but he can’t manage it with Sgt. Manes watching his son’s every move like a hawk. Alex barely even looks at him when their paths cross in town. Michael almost thinks that Alex must hate him--blame him for the god-knows-what that his father probably did after finding him with  _ Michael Guerin _ of all people. But then Alex catches his eye one day in the Crashdown Cafe and for a moment Alex doesn’t look away. He glances around nervously before making eye contact again across the crowded restaurant. There’s a gut-wrenching sadness in his expression when he mouths,  _ I’m so sorry. _

Michael shakes his head, shrugs, and mouths back,  _ Not your fault. _

But then Alex’s father comes back from wherever he’d been, rejoining his son in the booth, and Michael thinks it best to just make himself scarce. Three days later he finds out that Alex enlisted, not by hearing from Alex but because it’s plastered on the front page of the Roswell Register. “Local teen following in family’s footsteps.” A fluff piece full of bullshit about honor and service and love that makes Michael want to light Jesse Manes on fire. If Alex doesn’t get himself killed, they’re gonna beat everything out of him that makes him unique--which is probably precisely what his father is hoping will happen. Michael wonders if Sgt. Manes even minds the thought of Alex dying--so long as he dies a “straight,” regulation, order-following, soldier instead of staying here to be the real Alex-- _ Michael’s  _ Alex.

Every time he thinks of Alex as  _ his _ . Every time he wonders what would have happened if Sgt. Manes hadn’t caught them that night. Every time he daydreams about cheesy dates to the drive in and camping in the desert. Every time, Michael crashes back to reality by reminding himself that even if things hadn’t gone so horribly wrong, he’s still Michael Guerin--street rat, hoodlum, brawler, and general menace to polite Roswell society. Alex would never have been  _ his _ . 

But he damn sure should be  _ someone’s _ .

He should be  _ happy _ . 

Later on the night Michael finds out--or maybe into the wee hours of the next morning--he’s downed enough liquid courage to scribble a note on a scrap of paper.

_ You don’t have to do this. We could get the hell out of this town. Hit the road and never look back. We’ll figure something else out; I swear.  _

At the bottom of the note, He adds the number for the prepaid phone Isobel got him a few months back--Alex has the number, but he can’t be sure Alex has his phone anymore. He makes his way to the Evans’ house, stumbling more than a little along the way, tapping at his brother’s window until a very perturbed Max finally comes to open it. 

“Do you have any idea what time it is, Michael?” he hisses. 

“Nope,” he answers honestly. “I need a favor, okay? ‘S’important.”

“Are you drunk?!”

“Duh.”

“ _ Michael _ !” he chastises.

“ _ Maxwell! _ ” he mimics, rolling his eyes which he instantly regrets as the world spins around him. 

“What happened?”

“I need a favor,” he repeats. 

“Is it your hand?” Max asks. “Because you can’t just keep medicating with alcohol or your’e gonna--”

“Shhhhh,” Michael tells him. “I didn’ come here for life advice, okay? I told’ya I need a favor. I got a plan; something I gotta do; and you gotta help out, okay? That’s what brothers are for, right? Way smaller favor than the others we been doin’ lately,” he adds bitterly.

“What favor?”

“Get this to Alex Manes,” he says, pressing the paper into Max’s hand. “But don’t read it. Swear on Isobel’s life you’re not gonna read it.”

“Michael--”

“ _ Swear _ .” When his brother doesn’t immediately agree he says, “If you don’t I’ll do it myself. Go to the Manes’ and use my powers to float it into--”

“Okay, okay fine,” Max agrees. “I’ll make sure to get it to him.”

“An’ not read it.”

“And not read it,” he confirms. 

“Good,” Michael says, turning to go.

“Michael,” Max calls after him, voice a harsh raised whisper in the night. He turns back to his brother. 

“Yeah?”

“Whatever it is, you should tell him--in person--before he goes.”

“Can’t,” Michael says shaking his head. “This’ll haveta do.”

“Why?”

“It just is what it is, man. Hey, and don’ let his Dad see, ‘kay? Tha’s really important.”

“You wanna crash here tonight? You shouldn’t be out wandering around when you’re drunk off your--”

“You worry too much,” he replies with a grin. “I can take care of m’self.”

“Michael--”

“I don’ need your charity; just need you to pass a note. Get back to bed,” he tells Max. 

“Drink some water,” Max replies. 

He flips him off good-naturedly as he retreats back into the darkness, stumbling his way back to his truck and tucking into the sleeping bag in the bed of it. He’s not nearly as buzzed as he’d like to be by the time he finally settles down to try and sleep, but that’s okay. He distracts himself by looking up at the stars, tracing constellations in his mind’s eye, wondering which of them are the signposts that might lead his real family here to find him someday. It’s a dream that’s long since turned hollow, and yet Michael can’t ever quite manage to stop hoping it’ll come true. 

**Author's Note:**

> Comments really are the best! We welcome them <3 
> 
> Come say hi and join us in our obsession: vague-shadows.tumblr.com


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